The Subtle Art of Seduction and Manipulation
by BritishBlondie
Summary: Hermione Granger, the perfect English Rose. Tom Riddle... well, she wasn't sure exactly what he was. A horror-ish, full of drama, slightly romantic late 19th century The Great God Pan AU
1. Chapter 1

"Albus, Albus, oh how glad I am to see you here to-night," the stout man's dull, muddied eyes darted left, then right, before ushering the other, taller man inside. The shack, little more than a leaning mass of rotted wooden planks, seemed caked in a layer of filth an inch thick, and in some places the prehistoric brick work was completely obscured by decades of dirt and disuse. In another life, perhaps, it would have been a handsome woodland cottage, whitewashed and thatched, a picturesque-chocolate-box abode. "Oh, yes, yes, sorry about the clutter," the man murmured absentmindedly, nudging the decapitated corpse of a rat with the toe of a hobnailed boot. He did not seem particularly apologetic. The other man did not seem to mind, however, as he examined the view of the wild, brow furrowed contemplatively, through a cracked and dirt encrusted window pane. His robes, a cheerful, sunny yellow, did not seem particularly in place among the shack's decor (or even his own disposition), and even as he brushed at the window with his sleeve, mind on another subject entirely, one could not shake the feeling that he was watching you. Suddenly, as if kickstarted, the man bounced on his toes before spinning round to peer at the shorter man through half moon spectacles. The man looked quite shocked to be acknowledged in this way, despite the invitation of address. Under his unyielding gaze, one got the distinct impression that he could look right through one's face and into the mind, even the _soul_ , beyond. The mischievous twinkle in his cerulean eyes only intensified the odd, crawling feeling; one almost _expected_ spritely wings and pointed ears to sprout in a shower of silver sparks from his excessively long auburn hair. Albus - Dumbledore, as the stout man knew him to be - hummed a noncommittal affirmation of something, and grinned toothily at him. He shuddered, but as discretely as he could. The mischief in Dumbledore's eyes only intensified.

"Vaughn, perhaps a pot of tea?" The stout man seemed not to know what to do at this statement, a fireplace, kettle and teapot obviously unavailable in the current situation. Dumbledore seemed to have realised this as well, and watched the shorter man squirm with a keen fascination akin to a small boy pulling the wings off a butterfly. He cleared his throat lightly and settled on a dingy old stool, far too low and far too rickety to serve any purpose except firewood. "As you most certainly know, I have approached you with a matter of the utmost urgency and importance," Albus paused here, perhaps expecting a reaction. Vaughn jerked lightly from his stance by the doorway and coughed indelicately. Dumbledore's face flashed with a vaguely similar caricature of disgust before falling back to a smooth mask. "Have you ever happenced upon the lording family of Little Hangleton?" Vaughn swiped a grimy hand under his leaking nose. "Have you ever heard of the Riddles?"


	2. Chapter 2

The man was tall, but he held an even greater presence than should be allowed; He held those darkly handsome looks that made even the most stoic of women swoon. But the most alluring detail, he held himself with a self confidence that exuded wealth and status, and this perhaps was the reason that the young Merope fell for him in the way that she did. She was a plain, mousy thing, skinny and with yellow pallor, facial features akin to an overlarge rodent. Her mind was weaker than even her frail body. It was a miracle at all that she carried the young Tom to term; and maybe this was a greatest tragedy in itself. A whirlwind affair, and the pitifully weak mind of Merope had exhausted its purpose. The seduction, the allure of the forbidden, disappeared in a puff of incensed smoke from Tom Riddle's mind. Where he could return home, a clip round the ear, a miffed fiancée and a warm bed, Merope Gaunt lay on the streets of London, lost. Her mind, her heart, her being, lost in the smoggy grime of the City gutters. It was her final act, gifted by the Gods, the survival of her child; a miracle that could attest to the very _existence_ of these transcendent powers. Her last words, a curse she plagued her child, and the bestowment of a muddying slur upon her only son. The matron would shudder in reminisce; the poor, the power, would fear the words. _Tom Marvolo Riddle._

A/N

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Hola chicas, and welcome to this story. Yes I know, very short blah blah, but I'm just getting into it *smirks and flutters eyelashes*. Hope you all like it. This will be a long fic, but it might take a while to complete. Review, follow, favourite, every notification makes my day :)

Good luck (you'll need it, believe me)

Internet hugs and online kisses,

Blondie


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